Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/272

 This is that happy morn, That day, long wishèd day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And  fates not hope betray), Which, only   white,  deserves A diamond for ever should it mark: This is the morn should bring into this grove My Love, to hear and recompense my love. Fair King, who all preserves, But show thy blushing beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Penèus' streams Did once thy heart surprise: Nay, suns, which shine as clear As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. Now, Flora, deck thyself in fairest guise: If that ye, winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Your stormy chiding stay; Let zephyr only breathe And with her tresses play, Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death.

The winds all silent are; And Phœbus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air Makes vanish every star: Night like a drunkard reels Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels: The fields with flowers are deck'd in every hue, The clouds bespangle with bright gold their blue; Here is the pleasant place— And everything, save Her, who all should grace.